


Arthur: Unexpected Journey

by nikola



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:12:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikola/pseuds/nikola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his dream, the dragon introduced himself as the Great Dragon but honestly, he looked old and sick. At twelve, Arthur liked the sound of saving the world. It just felt like that was what he should be doing, like destiny and fate and everything that meant he wasn’t out of place in this world. That he mattered. It was a little overwhelming, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur: Unexpected Journey

Arthur: Unexpected Journey

\- L.

 “You’re breaking up with me?”

 The pitch of her voice is a little off, with a touch of hysteria. A few customers turn to look at the incongruous commotion. It is a fancy restaurant where they have a wine list and people who talk politely to each other. Arthur hopes he looks as apologetic and regretful as he feels.

 “Look, Rose, I’m sorry. But there’s something I haven’t told you.” Here goes, the big secret. Arthur feels his chest flutter nervously. It’s the butterflies that have grown with him during the time he was with Rose. He feels like he is cheating her. Which obviously he is. He wishes he had thought through the whole plan better. He takes a breath.

 “I’m not really who I said I was.”

 “Are you trying to be funny, Arthur?” Her blonde curls brush the table as she leans in closer. The ring lies abandoned between them, a thin line of diamond that shines in the chandelier light. Arthur imagines the butterflies have grown to pterodactyls.

 “No, I’m really not.” Arthur answers.

 “Well then, what the hell…”

 “My real name,” Arthur interjects her, feeling like a character in a spy movie. “Is Arthur Pendragon.” There is silence.

 Pendragon is not a spy name, though. Rose leans back in her chair. She seems to be contemplating Arthur, all of her indignation disappeared from her face as if she’s taken off a mask. A thought occurs to Arthur.

 “You knew.” He says, his mouth hanging open. Rose doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. If anything, she looks disappointed.

 “Of course I knew.”

  _Devious cow_ , Arthur thinks, but manages to paste a smile to his face. “So you realize why I can’t… marry you.”

 “I suppose you already have a fiancée as well. The daughter of some other similarly rich corporation?” Even her voice has changed. Arthur tries to see the wide-eyed, bubbly girl he’d been seeing the last few months. It’s a sad thing, really, that Arthur is getting used to things like this. People tend to treat you differently when they learn that you’re the heir to the biggest corporation in Britain. The mysterious son of Uther Pendragon, the emperor. That is what they actually call him. Having known the man all his life, Arthur can’t disagree. Uther has been very strict with keeping his son’s identity veiled, though. He hasn’t properly explained the reason for that. He never does. The result of that, though, is this poorly concocted plan of hiding his identity and meeting a girl, so he doesn’t know if he should be grateful in the end. Except Rose already knew. He guesses that makes them even, kind of.

 “Yes.” Arthur sighs, conceding. Rose makes a snorting kind of noise. “Why did you do it in the first place?” She sits back with her legs crossed. It’s like she’s given up all pretense now, and it disturbs him that he’s been played all along. The only thing that’s more disturbing is that he’s been playing her too. It might as well have been that the last few months didn’t exist, for all the lack of truths between them.

 “I was… well, I was,” Arthur realizes there really isn’t a proper explanation. He decides to go with the truth. What the hell. “Bored. Mostly.”

 “Like you don’t already have everything you want.” Rose says accusingly.

 “I guess it does seem that way, but that’s not what I want.”

 “Well, what is it then?”

 “I don’t know, I just feel like… I should be doing something more important.”

 “More important than running the biggest company in Britain?”

 “Well, yeah. I sound rather heady, don’t I.”

 Rose laughs. It’s not the sweet, innocent laugh of the Rose he thought he knew, but he decides he likes this one as well. Even though it’s edgier, more malicious somehow.

 “Something important like what?”

 “I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh.” Arthur leans in conspiringly. Rose nods, a smile hanging from her red lipsticks. For a blinding second, the light catches her silver earrings and softens the sharp edges of her face; and Arthur is stunned into telling her the truth.

 “I’m looking for a great warlock.”

 Except it probably doesn’t sound like the truth. Rose’s face is unreadable. Arthur attempts to explain.

 “When I was twelve, a great dragon came to me. It talked about a destiny, about finding a great warlock… and something about a coin. With two sides.”

 “All coins have two sides.”

 “I know.”

 “You’re joking.” Rose narrows her eyes. There is a brief moment of hesitation between a truth and a lie in Arthur’s head. In the end, he is too afraid. Of the misplaced flutters in his chest, the nightmare of waking up from this reality and finding it was a dream, (Although Leon insists that it is probably the results of watching _The Matrix_ one too many times) and of the truth.

 “Obviously,” Arthur sputters out laughing. The tension that he hasn’t been aware of shatters with the air and his voice. Rose looks relieved, mostly, but a little troubled too; as if she isn’t sure Arthur is really joking or not.

 He isn’t, not really, but he keeps that to himself.

 “I should go.” He says and drags out the chair. His fingers hesitate over the ring, pushes it towards Rose. She doesn’t stir from where she’s sitting.

 “The least you could do is keep the ring, Arthur.”

 “It looks expensive.” Arthur says. Rose shakes her head, but doesn’t elaborate. Arthur suddenly feels the forgotten guilt rising in his throat and he picks up the ring. Rose watches all of this with a distance he can’t recognize.

 “Well,” Arthur remembers that he isn’t that brilliant with goodbyes. “Goodbye.”

 Rose just stares at him at that, so Arthur racks his brain for something else to add that might end the whole affair gracefully. “I guess this is the last time I’ll see you.” Brilliant. He thinks he won’t be surprised if Rose leaves without answering. She does finally rise to her feet, but what she says is different from what he’s expected.

 “I hope not, Arthur.”

 With that, she grabs her own ring off the table and walks out the restaurant. Her heels make clicking noise on the marble floor, ticking away like a clock. He thinks he hears them long after they’ve disappeared. He watches the back of her long blonde hair mournfully and wonders if he’s made a mistake.

 “Sir.” Leon appears out of nowhere, disturbing his mournful thoughts. The corner of Arthur’s lip twitches.

 “I thought I lost you, Leon.” Arthur says. He had deliberately chosen difficult routes, narrow alleys, and huge crowds to get here. Having your bodyguard watch over every date really got old.

 “Oh, was that what you were trying to do?” Leon frowns. “I thought you were lost, or something.”

 Arthur rolls his eyes. “Very funny. We’ve broken up. I suppose you’re going to tell me I told you so.”

 “Well, I hate to say it,” Leon scratches his head, which is too curly and too ridiculously high up. Arthur doesn’t know how he always manages to melt into the crowd when he’s at least a head above most of them.

 “Then don’t.” Arthur stomps out before Leon can answer. He doesn’t hear him following, but he knows that when he opens the front door a car will slide to a stop in front of him and Leon will be behind the wheels, silent and mysterious. Sometimes it feels like magic, how Leon always manages to find him wherever he goes.

 Magic. Arthur thinks about the great warlock that he’s supposed to find. It’s not much to go on, really, and half of him thinks himself stupid for holding onto such a useless dream for so long. In his dream, the dragon introduced himself as the Great Dragon but honestly, he looked old and sick. Withering. His voice, though, when he said _young Pendragon_ as if he knew him for a long time. Arthur felt like he knew him as well, from a great battle or maybe two. The dragon told him of his destiny. _You will save the world, young Pendragon_ , it said. At twelve, Arthur liked the sound of saving the world. It just felt like that was what he should be doing, like destiny and fate and everything that meant he wasn’t out of place in this world. That he mattered. It was a little overwhelming, though.

  _How am I going to save the world?_ He’d asked.

  _With the help of a great warlock. Without him, you cannot succeed._

 The dragon refused to tell him anything useful after that. If only he knew who those three people were. And this warlock. He has been searching ever since. The more rational part of him (that sounds a lot like Leon) tells him that a bored, twelve-year-old Arthur made the whole thing up, that the dream was nothing more than an expression of his subconscious, Freud kind of thing. The other part, though, insists that it’s real. He wants it to be real. There isn’t really any point, otherwise. This other part seems to be wearing a chainmail and carrying a large sword, so it wins every time.

 As he gets into the car, Arthurs dreams of meeting the warlock. It would be somewhere unexpected. He would go to a pub and bump into him. They would be waiting for the plane in the same area. His car would break and he would give a ride. Arthur realizes that the scenario sounds like the start of a romantic comedy movie, but he can’t help but wonder. About destiny, and magic, and something important.

 “Your father wants to see you in his office, sir.” Leon informs him.

 Arthur sighs. London rushes past him, air thick and gray with mist. The Pendragon building slowly marches out from the fog. He thinks it looks like a castle.

\- L.

 The first thing he realizes about himself, even before the name, is that he can move things with his mind.

 It isn’t a conscious decision. Obviously he does not _try_ to move the object with his thoughts. But when he becomes aware of his burning throat, a flicker of an eye and suddenly a glass of water is in his hand. He blinks at it, at the splotch of water on his bed sheet where the collision has spilled a drop or two. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Then the door opens.

 “You’re awake!” A female voice, a mixture of English and Irish accents, he reckons. A woman rushes to his bedside where he still has the glass in his hand. He looks dumbly back at her.

 “I thought I left the glass at the other side of the room.” She frowns down at it. He doesn’t know what to say. “I guess not.” She decides, shrugging easily. She has a pale face, her dark curls a startling contrast of colors. He wonders if he knows her.

 When he still does not speak, she sits down on the bed near his legs.

 “How’re you feeling? Do you… do you remember what happened?”

 “Remember what happened?” He repeats back. She nods earnestly. She seems relieved that he hasn’t lost his tongue, at least.

 “About the accident, I mean.” She clarifies. He still does not know.

 “About the…” His voice sounds young. Younger than he expects. He stares down at his hands and they are pale, almost as pale as the woman’s, and spotlessly smooth. He frowns at that. He has expected them to be older. He doesn’t remember why.

 “Look, I found you on the road in front of my house, passed out. I mean, I don’t think… there wasn’t too much blood.”

 “Um,” he tries to remember. It’s occurring to him that his mind is fiercely blank, nothing to stand on. “Good? I suppose?”

 “I really don’t know anything else about it. It didn’t look too serious, and I’m a nurse, so I brought you to my home, and, I hope you don’t mind.”

 “Oh, no, that’s awfully kind of you.” He assures her. Finally sips some water from the glass. It tickles down his throat in a burning trail. Meanwhile he tries to make sense of it all. Of himself. He feels like the universe is cheating on him, laughing at his expense.

 Because he doesn’t remember. Not a single bloody thing.

 “Well, I think you’re okay now,” she smiles. It’s a brilliant smile, one that makes her whole face brighter. “I’m Anna. What’s your name?”

 “Uh, Merlin.” The name slips from his tongue easily enough. For a moment there is hope, he thinks, that all the rest will come back in pieces – slowly, dripping, seeping back in. He waits but nothing happens. Merlin. It sounds strange and foreign and not at all familiar.

 “Merlin.” It sounds all right on her voice, though, like a strawberry or apple pie.

 “Merlin Emrys, I think.” He supplies, as another name comes to his mind.

 “You _think_?” Anna’s face clouds, as she realizes. “Do you remember anything else?”

 “Not really.” Merlin attempts at a grin. “Nothing.” Except that he can move things with his mind, but he thinks to hide it first, like a survival instinct.

 “It might come to you, slowly. Take it easy.” Anna pats his shoulder. She can’t quite keep the voice light enough, though. Merlin takes another drink from the glass. It is reminiscent of something, a feeling at the back of his head, but he doesn’t know what. He thinks it’s a stupid thing to remember about your forgotten life. The sensation of drinking water. Brilliant.

 “Won’t I be troubling you too much?” He asks after he’s gulped down the water, when Anna makes to leave the room. She looks back.

 “Do you have somewhere to go?”

 “Well, no, obviously not.” He concedes. “But…”

 “I’m not about to kick you out. You’re staying for as long as it takes to figure this out. Now, get some rest.” Her voice is commanding, but not in an unkind way. Merlin blinks back whatever was on his tongue. Eventually he feels a grin spreading across his face, a slow ripple. He figures, whatever he’s done, that he must be a pretty optimistic lad.

 “Is this how you treat all your patients?”

 “No, just the pretty ones.” She laughs.

 Anna closes the door on the way out. Merlin is left alone in the room. There is an old clock at the other side of the room above the drawers. He stares at the ticking hands, wondering.

 Concentrates, and the hands stutter to a stop. Merlin swears he feels something hot and intense growling at his chest and his eyes glow warm for a second like he is crying. He drops the glass, spills water all over the blanket. But then he stares at it hard and the dark blotch disappears. His fingers touch the shadow of the water and it is as if has never been wet.

 Merlin leans back on his pillows and thinks about this. About magic, and the accident, and nothing at all because when he scratches at the white wall in his head nothing really happens, no memories jump out at him. It is as if he is scratching a brick wall with his nails. Merlin Emrys, he rolls the name on his tongue. Eventually it is to this name he falls asleep. He has a very confusing dream about giant baby rats and leather boots and coins with brighter sides.

\- L.

 When Merlin limps out from his room a few hours later, the dusk of early March sets a kind of forlorn atmosphere to the whole house, which is minimally decorated and mostly enveloped in darkness. The only light spilling onto the floor comes from the kitchen. Merlin drags himself to the door and finds Anna reading a newspaper. She is not alone, though, and as she looks up through her reading glasses, another man turns his head from where he’s been making a cup of tea at the counter. He has dark brown hair that has grown almost to his shoulders. His lips twitch at seeing Merlin, like Merlin is the joke he’s been waiting for.

 “Merlin,” he says first, in an unexpectedly articulate pronunciation. The stubble and the metal band t-shirt, his bare feet and also something about his eyes seem to speak of a renegade. Or a rebel, at least.

 “I’m Gwaine.” He extends his hand as if for a shake, but then the kettle blips and he is distracted again. Merlin has his hand hanging awkwardly in the air. Anna seems to find it funny.

 “Did you rest well?” She asks, but is interrupted by Gwaine.

 “Ah, sorry, the tea. Gwaine.” He turns again and his hair flops around. Merlin grins.

 “Yeah, you said.” They shake hands. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

 “Don’t mention it. Would you like a cup of tea? With milk?”

 “I’m alright,” Merlin says, but Gwaine isn’t listening. He’s pouring a cup for himself with his right hand and looking through the cupboard with the left. It’s a little dizzying, how raw energy and friendly chaos bounce around him.

 “One thing at a time, Gwaine.” Anna says it like a habit.

 “I’ll manage… Ah, here we’ve got it.” Gwaine tiptoes to pull a mug out from behind the dishes. “Now where’s the milk,”

 “I’m okay, really.” Merlin says again but Gwaine ignores him. Again. Anna rolls her eyes.

 “Gwaine here, is my cousin,” she explains. Merlin nods and sits down across from her. He doesn’t think they’re really cousins but doesn’t know why he thinks that. He keeps silent, though, and watches Gwaine dance with two mugs and a carton of milk. His thoughts start to drift. He remembers the dream he had. Was it a memory? Some of it might have been, but he supposes the giant baby rat part might just have been his imagination. It occurs to him that he should be more scared of having an empty past than he is. That is when he sees it. Gwaine hits his elbow on the counter and the milk and his cup tip over the edge.

 Merlin sees the milk carton falling to the floor and the white milk spurting out like blossoming flowers as if it’s in slow motion. He acts without really thinking. It doesn’t require a lot of thinking, in any case, just another stare and the carton freezes mid-air.

 There is silence. As soon as he realizes what he’s doing, he blinks and the carton continues its fall. With a splash comes its death, the milk slowly forming a puddle around the pack. Merlin looks at the small white ocean. His heart is drumming a little faster. He wonders if there is a chance that neither of them have seen it.

 And then Gwaine laughs. Merlin shots up his head. He finds Gwaine looking at him through slanted eyes.

 “What?” He looks at Anna and finds her staring at him too. But it isn’t _fear_ or anything in her eyes – it’s wonder. And hope. Suddenly he remembers that he hasn’t heard a _crack_ as the mug makes contact with the wooden floor. He snaps his head around and sees the mug, suspended between falling and breaking. Gwaine falls to the floor laughing and Anna blinks at him. Merlin takes a moment to understand.

 “Oh,” he finally says. Meets Anna’s eyes, wide and wondering. “You have magic too.”

 It sounds stupid, _magic_ , like a child’s play. He doesn’t know what made him say it.

 “This is great.” Gwaine nods to himself as if it is he who has stopped the mug and the milk from falling. Some of the tension disappears, and Gwaine grabs the mug from the air and puts it back on the counter. “Bloody great.” He doesn’t say what’s great about it, though.

 “I’ve spoilt him. He’s too careless now.” Anna confides, a little tentative still. She seems to be searching for something in Merlin’s face. Merlin realizes that he’s been gaping and shuts his mouth.

 “Is this… I mean, is Gwaine…”

 “No, I’m normal. Which turns out to be the minority in this house. Wonder, wonder.” Gwaine is still chuckling a bit.

 “What’s so funny about it?” Merlin asks, though Gwaine’s easiness and cheers are contagious and he’s starting to grin a little himself. It’s nice to know that he’s not alone with this. He doesn’t remember much about himself or the world – but he thinks that it is not normal to be able to stop the hands of the clock with his eyes or make water evaporate at room temperature. Only it comes so natural. It is part of who he is, he thinks. Could something that is an integral part of someone be abnormal? Maybe it makes him an abnormal person.

 “Obviously you realize what this means, Merlin.” Gwaine is pretending to be serious as he sips from his mug. He squirms at the taste. “Shame about the milk. Don’t suppose you can do anything about it?”

 Merlin thinks about it. “No, I don’t think so. What do you mean, what it means?”

 “He’s been nagging me for weeks now.” Anna says at the same time that Gwaine exclaims, like a kid waking up on Christmas day, “we’re going to London!”

\- L.

 The plan is to get rich, _filthy rich_ is Gwaine’s choice of phrase. Merlin and Anna will be a duo – a magician duo – and siblings. Gwaine decides on the siblings part because he thinks it’s a neat explanation and earns thirty less seconds of unnecessary questions. Kind of like how Anna introduces him as her cousin to everybody else, when they are not. They grew up together as children. Anna’s father went out with Gwaine’s mother a couple of times, on and off. And then on, and then off. The children never had problems with figuring out their relationship, though. Gwaine loved pulling Anna’s hair and she loved putting spiders in his soup way too much. Before he knew of her _special powers_ , he used to wonder where all the spiders came from.

 Gwaine also decides that they should both be Irish, seeing how Gwaine and Anna both speak with the accent – if somewhat watered down from the long stay in England. Merlin stumbles over his tongue at first, but gets surprisingly good. Gwaine thinks that one of his parents might have been Irish. He has that pale look about him.

 He overlooks the fact that Merlin and Anna will be doing all the actual work – magic – and insists upon equal sharing. None of them protest, as should be. After all, it is Gwaine who lands them on their first job. A bloke who owes him from a bar brawl knows a bloke, who knows a bloke related to someone called Phil, who runs the _Rising Sun –_ a magic show business. Phil asks for a meeting, a demonstration of their skills. Gwaine is only too happy to agree.

 “I’ll have you people know, we’re not exactly hiring. But Peter says –“ Phil, a heavy man with round glasses, starts to say when they all gather around his office nervously. Well, nervous except for Gwaine. He sees no reason to be nervous. The prospect of gold hangs heavily in the air, it’s almost tangible.

 “It’s true, all true.” Gwaine is anxious to start.

 “What is?”

 “Whatever it is that Peter said. They’re really good.”

 Phil looks mildly irritated that he is interrupted, but nods at Merlin.

 “From Northern Ireland, is that right?”

 “Yes…sir,” Merlin looks nervous too. He’s wearing one of Gwaine’s hoodies and jeans, which look like they could swallow him. The boy is terribly skinny. Gwaine will have to do something about that soon.

 “Hmm. Alright,” Phil adjusts his eyeglasses. He looks indulgent, like he has better things to do. Looks like one of those business types Gwaine hates. “Show me.”

 Merlin glances at Anna. She’s been quiet, but her presence is like a lithe wolf in a very small chamber. Her eyes meet Gwaine’s, and there’s the first hint of a familiar smirk. They hadn’t let him see the preparation – Gwaine grins in anticipation as Anna holds out her hand. There is a small flower, violet and frail. That is how it starts.

 Five minutes later, Phil is gaping and Gwaine is clapping his hands. There is a bouquet of velvet blue roses sticking out from Phil’s jacket pocket and a small butterfly is circling it. The butterfly comes from Merlin’s palms. He looks delighted like a little boy, like maybe he hasn’t realized he could do that. Anna gives a medieval-style bow and retrieves the bouquet. She throws it across the room without looking and it lands in Gwaine’s hands. He grins wide as the little butterfly follows the blue scent.

 Gwaine knows they got the job. It’s the first step to their big success.

\- L.

 “The big success?” Anna asks when they are outside. The air is a little colder here in London, because the wind runs between the buildings and clashes with the street lights.

 “What will you do with the money, then?” Merlin asks. He’s grinning too. Gwaine notes that Merlin grins like an idiot. It’s a quality he approves.

 “Erm, buy a nice little flat in London, maybe. Bar-adjacent.”

 “And?”

 “And, not work, mostly. Yeah, that’s the biggest part.” Gwaine admits. They wait for the bus to take them to their motel.

 “That’s it?” Merlin asks. He looks amused, although his tone is incredulous. Gwaine thinks about it.

 “Pretty much.” He says. “Look, I dunno about you, Merlin, but Anna and I – she hated being a nurse and I hated being a boxing coach. With you, though, and your magic, you lot can do the show easy, right? I mean, it isn’t a lot of money but then it’s easy as drinking. And we all enjoy a little money.”

 “And do what with it?” Merlin still wants to know. Gwaine blinks, and Anna tries to look disinterested, like this whole conversation is below her.

 “I dunno. Have a glass of whiskey?”

 “Hmm.” Merlin’s brows furrow. He sticks his hands inside Gwaine’s hoodie and squares his shoulders. It looks like he’s fighting against the wind. “It sounds… good, I suppose.”

 “But?” Gwaine raises his eyebrows.

 “But I feel like maybe, I’m supposed to do something more. Like…” Merlin blushes a little. It’s a stark contrast against his pale skin. “Like it’s not my destiny, or something.”

 “Huh.” Gwaine honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. Thankfully, Anna stops ignoring them and pitches in.

 “Do you feel like you’re destined to do something else? Something… worthy?”

 “Maybe.” Merlin shrugs. He still looks a little embarrassed. “But then, I don’t even know who I am, and it’s ridiculous.”

 “Maybe you were an activist or something.” Gwaine says helpfully. “Like, you know, animal rights.”

 Anna frowns but Merlin laughs at that. “Maybe,” he says, just as a double-decker arrives. Gwaine follows a group of Asian tourists onto the bus and thinks about destiny. It hurts his head.

\- L.

 Almost two weeks has passed since Rose, and Arthur finds himself missing her crooked smile, the way her fringe tickles the eyelashes, her emerald heels that bring out her eyes and remind him of fairytales. He wonders again if he’s made a mistake. He doesn’t really believe in true love, but he wonders if he’s missed it somehow. What if she was the one? He leans back in his plushy white chair and presses _next_. A whiny voice tickles out from the speakers of his new iphone. He broke the last one about a week ago when he took it horseback-riding with him.

 Almost two hours has passed since Vivian, and Arthur is already dreading the next time he’ll have to see her. She wears red lipsticks and blood-red heels that do nothing to bring out anything. She’s beautiful, alright, but Arthur hardly expects any less. After all, Vivian’s father has money to buy enough of the Pendragon shares to make his father nervous and beauty is easy to buy these days. That’s why he’s forced to suffer this way, Arthur reminds himself. He has dutifully spent another day with her today, and it leaves him more weary than a full-day’s training at the gym. And already, six voice messages? Arthur presses _delete._ It’s not enough. In a sudden fit of irritation at, well, his _life_ , he throws the phone to the sofa.

 “Sir.” Leon pokes his head into the room at that moment, and knocks on the open door like the formal bodyguard he is. Arthur looks up. Leon frowns at his feet up on the mahogany desk and the phone sprawled on the cushion like a dead fish. He wiggles his eyebrows as if asking for a reason.

 “Sometimes I wish I could be less handsome.” Arthur says as an explanation. Leon immediately scrunches up his face in an understanding pity.

 “Miss Vivian?”

 “Lady Vivian, she prefers.” Arthur mutters. He puts his feet down because of the last stretch of dignity he has left, and is immediately glad that he did. A blonde head appears by Leon’s shoulder.

 “Rose?”

 Arthur half-rises, struck dumb. She grins in that way she does, the one from his daydreams.

 “Hello, Arthur.”

 “I didn’t know if you wanted to…” Leon trails off cautiously, and Arthur nods, still a little dazed. If Rose had come a few hours earlier… Arthur doesn’t want to imagine what Vivian would try to do to Rose. Have her along with her daily low-cal teas, perhaps.

 “That’s fine, Leon. Thank you.”

 Leon obediently closes the door on the way out. Arthur watches Rose sit down next to the phone and pick it up.

 “Lady Vivian?” She raises one of her perfectly drawn eyebrows at the name on the screen. Arthur tries to sound nonchalant.

 “It was… her idea.” He takes a breath. He can hardly believe that Rose is here. He thought he’d never see her again. “So, what brings you, Rose?”

 “Well, I got these from my magazine.” She takes out a two pieces of paper from her purse. Arthur squints to see what it is. They’re some kind of tickets. He’s itching to flop himself down into the cushions next to her, but nobly remains where he is.

 “What are they?”

 “Tickets. For a magic show.”

 Arthur hasn’t expected this. He takes a moment to understand. “A magic show?”

 “There is this Irish duo who are acquiring quite a name for themselves now. Apparently making butterflies out of thin air – everybody swears it’s brilliant.”

 “Oh,” Arthur shifts in his chair. “And… since when are you so interested in magic?”

 “I’m not. That’s why I brought it to you.” Rose says.

 “Oh, ha ha.” Arthur tries to sound incredulous. “You think… you thought… when I said I was looking for a great warlock… I mean, obviously I’m not _really_ looking for a magician.”

 “Whatever, Arthur.” Rose rolls her eyes and Arthur knows she sees through him. He doesn’t quite know how Rose knows so much about him in just a few months. He’s had to hide his identity, so it’s not like he’s talked a lot about himself. Nonetheless, he suspects she knows more than his father ever will and that brings a startlingly warm feeling to his chest.

 So in the end he just grins, gives up the pretense and goes to flop himself next to Rose on his white leather couch. His phone bruises his back, though, and he squirms in pain. Rose laughs. He takes one ticket from her hand.

 “Are you not mad at me?” He tries to see her expression but it’s enveloped in the early lights of the sunset from his windows and darkness dances with the orange shadows. For a moment there is no answer and Arthur is afraid of her answer even though he asked the question. Finally her voice comes, and it sounds like forgiveness.

 “I understand why you did…what you did.”

 “Thank you.” Arthur says, sincerely. “Does this mean… that we could, maybe, be friends?” He wonders if he’s asking too much but then Rose laughs, a small sound that makes his heart flutter.

 “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” she says. Arthur can’t do anything but grin like an idiot.

“And thank you for the ticket too. I know it sounds silly, but…”

 “Don’t worry about it.” Rose says when Arthur can’t find the words to finish the sentence. “If you really _do_ find a warlock, I want to see him too.”

 Arthur doesn’t know if she’s joking or not, but he laughs because it’s what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t tell her that he has this stupid hope, like he has had for the past how many years. He doesn’t tell her because even _he_ can’t tell what he’s hoping for. All he knows is that every day he wakes up and looks out at the foggy city, and it feels wrong. Like he’s supposed to do something more. Like it’s not his destiny, or something.

\- L.

 Vivian would have crushed the phone with her hands if she could. She would have gladly believed that the blonde, long-legged creature walking beside Arthur _out of his room_ was his sister if she didn’t know, for a fact, that Arthur doesn’t have any siblings. She hides herself in the shadow of the smooth marble column. They are walking the other way. At the end of the hall she sees Leon hand a white fur coat to the creature. Arthur and the woman disappear down the stairs. Vivian almost wishes she had let herself in through the front door, just to see the look on Leon’s face, but quickly thinks otherwise. This way she can do much more. _Nobody messes with me_ , she thinks, because nobody can. She takes a deep breath to calm herself and presses the number that she’s memorized years ago. A familiar voice answers, deep and bored.

 “It’s been a while, Lady Vivian.” The man says over the phone. Vivian doesn’t have time for unnecessary words. She tells him what she wants.

\- L.

 Merlin finds that he has gained the name of Butterfly Boy over the last few days. He is no closer to remembering who he was, and how much he can do. Just that everything he attempts actually happens, and Anna is swearing that he must be a genius. A magic genius. Lot of good it will do, performing tricks to an oblivious audience. Gwaine is right. It _is_ the easiest way to make money, and Merlin will make a thousand butterflies dance out of his palms dutifully to repay the kindness of two strangers, but he can’t quite shake off the feeling that he’s confessed to Gwaine some time ago. Of destiny, or something. He isn’t sure what it is. He feels like he should be doing something more, that what he’s forgotten is really important somehow but then everyone who is not happy with their jobs probably thinks that.

 Merlin has set a part of his mind apart, to wonder. He wonders as he lights a match and sets Anna on fire. The crowd gasps but it doesn’t hurt her, because he’s killed the heat. He makes himself wonder – about himself. Killing heat out of fire, might as well have killed the fire itself. Heat is what makes it – a fire – Merlin drifts in his thoughts. Maybe what makes someone is their memories. He knows he isn’t complete, but maybe he’s not anything without his memories. Anna breathes in, sharp. Merlin flinches. He realizes with horror, that he’s been too lost in his thoughts to quell the heat. He quickly wills it to be tepid but there’s already a small blister forming on Anna’s fingers. Merlin gulps and looks at Anna, but she bears it nobly. There is no sign of distress as she turns to the cheering crowd. The sound is splitting in his ears, lumpy and daft like metal. He tries to tell her _sorry_ with his eyes, but she isn’t looking at him. Anna smiles. Merlin licks his lips and turn his head as well. She is so much better at this than him.

 The crowd is no more than a overlapping, intertwined shadow-beast enveloped in the bright light of the stage. It’s hard to make out individual faces, except for those in the front seats. Sometimes there are kids, staring wide-eyed and entirely believing this to be what it really is – irony, he thinks, that only the least experienced in this world can see the truth. Sometimes there are skeptical adults who crane their necks to see the trick, the wire, the two-way mirror. The only trick is to make it look like a trick. Merlin finds that it is a much more difficult task than the actual… magic.

 Today there is a boy in glasses, his lollipop dangling from his lips. A couple of younger girls, similarly awe-struck and excited – they know what’s coming next. Merlin always closes the show with his butterflies, and they always flutter to the girls in the front row. Anna insists that it’s sexist, but Merlin isn’t doing it on purpose. The butterflies are separate beings – if his subconscious is controlling them somehow, sprinkling honey through the path, he’s got nothing to say for it except that pretty blue butterflies should be with the ladies. Gwaine comments that it’s a pretty medieval thing to think about.

 Next to the girls there are two adults. A woman and a man, probably on a date. They are both blonde, both striking in a silky, well-trimmed way. The woman is wearing a white fur coat that leaves her forearms bare. Her eyes and cheekbones glitter in the dim light and Merlin thinks that maybe today the butterfly might go to her. She’s frowning like she’s looking for the signs of the apocalypse, though, so he suspects she might be one of the skeptical types. He turns his eyes to the man sitting next to her.

 It’s strange, how in one moment there is a million pieces of a second – million pieces of memory? The man looks to be in his early twenties, brought up wealthy and important. He has a golden hair and blue eyes of a prince – like he might have left his white mare outside. It is his expression, though, that catches Merlin off-guard. He’s staring at the stage with wide eyes and mouth open like a kid. No, he’s staring at Merlin. Something that looks like joy but reads like hope – Merlin can’t quite figure out what he’s thinking. Almost automatically, his hands clasp in a praying motion for the last part of the show. He dips down his head because Gwaine and Anna tell him that his eyes burst in a golden glow when he casts magic. He brings a butterfly to life. It starts to flutter against his palms.

 The butterfly is light blue this time, like sky reflected in a puddle or even the wind – and it flutters its way through the lights, lands itself right on the shoulder of the wide-eyed prince.

\- L.

 “So that was strange.” Anna comments as soon as the door closes behind them. The crowd muffles a little. Gwaine is already waiting for them with bottles of water, grinning ear-to-ear.

 “What was strange? By the sounds of it, you guys…”

 “I’m so sorry, Anna. I dunno what I was thinking.” Merlin says before Gwaine can compliment him. “I was distracted. It won’t happen again, I swear…”

 Anna looks startled, like she might actually have forgotten the incident with the fire. Then she laughs. “Merlin, it’s alright. I wasn’t talking about that.”

 “What? What happened?” Gwaine sounds entirely baffled. Anna ignores him.

 “I was talking about your butterfly… who it’s gone to, today.”

 “Oh.” Merlin blinks. “Well, I, uh, took your advice.”

 “What? Can someone please tell me what’s going on? _What_ about Merlin’s butterfly?”

 “It’s gone to someone different this time, that’s all.” Anna is smirking in that way she does, like she’s done something naughty but knows you wouldn’t dare call her a liar. Merlin cannot fathom what’s to smirk about in this situation, though.

 “Someone who?” Gwaine almost bangs his head against the wall.

 As if in answer, there is a knock at the door. Phil, the manager of the _Rising Sun_ , pokes his head round the door.

 “Uh, evening, guys, brilliant show today. Again. Hardly needs saying.”

 “What do you want, Phil?” Gwaine says a bit gruffly. He knows that Phil can’t risk losing the Butterfly Boy, and tends to use it to his advantage from time to time. Well, always.

 “Well, there is this… well, an audience member asked to see you.” Phil squirms. He still hasn’t actually come into the room.

 “You know we don’t do fan meetings, Phil! It ruins the mystery!” Gwaine shrugs and moves to shoo him out of the room.

 “I know, if it was any other…”

 Before Phil can finish, a tall shadow slips into the room, silent like a predator. Gwaine freezes and so does Merlin when he sees who it is.

 “Oh, look, your prince.” Anna mutters behind him. Merlin really hopes that the man hasn’t heard it.

 “Look, mate, I don’t know who you are…” Gwaine starts after a short pause as if it never happened. But then the fur coat strolls in after the man and that seems to shut Gwaine up. Phil scurries out of the room, leaving a furry silence behind.

 “I’m sorry to intrude like this,” the man starts, in a voice that is anything but sorry. “But I just wanted to speak to you.”

 Merlin starts when he realizes the man is addressing him.

 “Me? Why? Look, if this is because of the butterfly…”

 Gwaine sputters a laughter and attempts to cover it as a cough.

 “What? No. It’s not because of the butterfly.” The man scrunches up his face like… like Merlin’s an idiot for thinking like that and something like annoyance shots up Merlin throat. It quickly turns into an inexplicable anger at the man’s next sentence. “I wanted to ask you about your magic.”

 “My _what_?” Merlin croaks and sees Anna shoot him a look.

 “You know, if… if it’s, uh, really… magic.” The man seems unsure as he fumbles, and Merlin can see that it’s a rare occurrence for him.

 Merlin blinks. He’s sure now that the man is making a joke out of him. Because then the alternative would be – _he knows about my magic_ – and Merlin fears it terribly without really knowing why. Who is he, barging in like this and asking all these questions as if everyone had a duty to answer them? The man holds himself like he expects exactly such a thing, though, and Merlin doesn’t really care who he is. He’s not the prince.  

 “Are you being funny?” Merlin huffs out. In the rushed heat that follows, he forgets to speak in an Irish accent. “Look, my friend, I don’t even know your name…”

 “You don’t?” The woman suddenly asks. She’s looking at Merlin like he’s got some sort of a mental disorder, and he will not have it. He’s about to tell them both to bugger off when a thought occurs to him. He hesitates.

 “Wait, I don’t… do I, am I supposed to know you?”

 “Excuse me?” The man looks bemused.

 “Well, I kind of had this accident a while ago and… don’t remember so much from before.”

 “Oh.” The man wriggles his eyebrows, as if to say _that explains a few things_. “Sorry to hear that, but no. We’ve never met. I think.” Then he frowns like he doesn’t quite know why he’s added that last bit.

 “Oh, okay. So who are you supposed to be?” Merlin asks.

 “I’m Arthur Pendragon.” He says simply. He looks like he’s expecting some kind of a gasp, a recognition, three cheers to the great heir. Merlin decides he isn’t going to indulge the little prat.

 “Yeah? I’m Merlin. Nice to meet you, mate. Now if you’ll leave us in peace.”

 “You really don’t know Pendragon?” The woman asks again. Seriously, though, aren’t we a little full of ourselves. Merlin rolls his eyes.

 “Lost my memories, remember? Out with you, now.”

 When Arthur Pendragon and his girlfriend shuffle out, they look too bewildered to protest. Too bewildered that someone doesn’t actually recognize them. The memory loss line is awfully convenient, Merlin thinks. You can almost get away with anything. No responsibilities, nothing.

 The door closes and Merlin sticks his ear to it to hear the footsteps fading away. When they’ve disappeared altogether, he turns back to face Gwaine and Anna.

 “What was that?” Anna says, but she looks amused more than anything. Merlin shrugs.

 “I dunno what came over me. I just… he’s such a prat.”

 “That I agree. Hate those royal types. Wait, you really don’t know Pendragon?” Gwaine says from the corner where he’s stood, frozen.

 “Of course I do. Don’t be stupid, Gwaine.” Merlin rolls his eyes.

\- L.

“Don’t look so disappointed, Arthur.” Rose tries to joke, but Arthur rather thinks she looks oddly disappointed as well. They come out through the back door to the back alley where he’s parked his car away from prying eyes. The air is moist. It must have rained during the show.

 “I’m not disappointed.” Arthur says. And it’s half-true, anyway. The dominant emotion in his chest right now is frustration. He’s frustrated with himself for hoping. He shouldn’t have hoped. He’s too old to believe in fairytales and dragons and great warlocks. Uther absolutely abhors all things related to fantasy and magic. He hasn’t even let Arthur watch the _Harry Potter_ movies. He’s frustrated for thinking that this man might actually be the warlock he’s been looking for… when he’s obviously no more than an idiot with a mental affliction. Arthur forces himself to consider that this obsession with his dream is nothing but a rebelling spirit against his father, and the unaccomplished feeling no more than simple boredom. He feels like he’s peeled a layer off the world only to find it cold and dark, bleeding with money and gravity.

 “Shame. He seemed… I don’t know, he seemed like…” Rose struggles to find the words. Arthur sighs.

 “Yeah, I know.” He’s about to say _a total buffoon,_ but then what comes out of his mouth is something else altogether. It surprises him. “There’s something about him, though. Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

 Rose is about to answer, when something splits the air and she suddenly drops to the ground. She falls to one of the puddles, ruining the fur coat forever. Arthur ducks on reflex and drags both of them behind a truck parked nearby. He frantically checks on her, heart thumping loudly in his ears, but she’s only stunned. It’s an anesthetic gun. Another whistle through the wind and Arthur watches in horror as a needle bounces off the hood of the truck. He tucks all of Rose’s unconscious form hidden behind the truck and pulls out his phone, only to drop it in a puddle. It splashes mud on his face. Suddenly there is a loud noise, and a grunt, from beyond the truck. Arthur peers out cautiously.

 A big shadow has tackled a similarly big shadow onto the ground. They are mostly just silhouettes against the pale moonlight and broken streetlamps, but Arthur can make out Leon’s curly hair wrestling another man into the ground. Arthur runs out to give him a hand. He hasn’t taken all those martial arts classes for nothing. There is a lot of distance to cover, though, and Arthur stumbles on a protruding brick on the way. He lands on his arms and only scratches the palms, but when he looks up the situation has changed. Leon is stumbling backwards and holding his left arm as if it might be broken, and the man is holding a gun to his chest. Arthur knows it’s a gun from the slick glow of metal, the click of the safety. He lunges forward without really thinking. The side of Leon’s body makes contact with his and Leon falls to the ground. Arthur doesn’t, but that means that now he’s the one at gunpoint. The man looks startled to find him there but there’s nothing to be done. The bullet has already left its hole.

 Arthur sees it, ridiculously enough, as a slow motion. He tries to imagine the little thing lodging itself inside his body and ripping the muscles, crushing the veins, and then wonders why he’s imagining things like that at the last moment of his life. Because it’s too late, there’s nothing to stop that bullet now. He thinks about the phone, of all things. It’s probably broken. Arthur doesn’t know how he manages to break everything that comes his way. He broke his mother, too.

  _This might break my father –_

 The bullet is so close, he closes his eyes and waits for that second. He hopes it hits his heart and ends instantly. It wouldn’t be so bad, then.

 Only the moment never comes. When Arthur opens his eyes hesitantly, he’s still in the dingy alley instead of heaven. He notices the choking expression on the shooter’s face and slowly follows his gaze down – to his chest – no, just hovering in front of his chest is the bullet that would have ended him. Suspended mid-air.

 “Arthur!” Leon’s cry comes a moment too late. Arthur blinks at his bodyguard because, yeah, he’s still alive, and Leon also blinks in confusion.

 “Still going to tell me this isn’t the _Matrix?_ ” Arthur asks. For once, Leon is at a loss for words.

 Arthur hears the man running away but neither of them has the mind to chase him. He hesitantly steps aside, out of the bullet’s way.

 “Arthur?”

 He looks up at the voice. At the warlock. Merlin looks out of breath, white breath in front of his face. The water particles in the air seep into his voice.

 “Thank god, I thought I was… I saw you push him aside and I thought I was gonna be too late…”

 “You did this. You stopped the bullet.” Arthur says, but it’s a confirmation. He finds that he’s not surprised. Like, somehow, this has been foretold a lifetime ago. “Merlin.”

 “I guess I did.” Merlin looks uncomfortable, and a little afraid too. Arthur doesn’t understand. He’s been waiting so long. Underneath that cold, bleak layer, there was another one after all. The one with blue butterflies landing on your shoulders.

 “And you’re not really Irish. Who are you?” Arthur asks, a little awed. He half-expects Merlin to suddenly grow a white beard and nod knowingly, say something wise.

 “I told you. I’m Merlin.” He squirms, and he’s still just a skinny boy. Arthur deflates a little but it doesn’t matter how old he is. He’s finally found him.

\- L.

 Merlin doesn’t understand Arthur’s reaction. People are not supposed to believe in magic – real magic – and aside from Gwaine, Merlin’s expected a lot of freak-outs if anyone ever found out. Maybe even fear. Only Arthur looks as if Merlin’s magic is the best thing that’s happened to him.

 Merlin thinks back at Arthur’s near-death. He doesn’t know why he felt that he needed air and why he used the back door. Why Arthur had his car parked here and why he’s been attacked. Why Arthur threw himself to take the bullet for his bodyguard – it sort of defeats the whole purpose of having a bodyguard, doesn’t it? But it makes Merlin think that maybe Arthur isn’t entirely a supercilious prat like he’s made him out to be.

 “Okay. Merlin.” Arthur says his name like a spell. “I don’t really know how to say this… um, have you ever been visited by a… Great Dragon?”

 “A _what?_ ” Merlin can’t quite keep the panic off his voice. It makes him uneasy to see how easy Arthur is about all this.

 “The Great Dragon.”

 “The Great… Arthur, are you… do you have magic too?”

 “What? No. Don’t be silly.” Arthur crumples up his face like he hasn’t been talking about dragons a second ago.

 “I don’t know,” Merlin finally answers when Arthur seems to be waiting for a response. “Lost my memories.” He reminds him. Arthur’s face falls.

 “Oh. Right. Sorry, forget about that. How would you like to save some people?”

 “Save who?” Merlin frowns. It’s getting cold, and he’s regretting ever having agreed to Gwaine’s stupid idea of pretending to trick people.

 “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But I need your help.”

 “How can you save someone if you don’t know who that is?” Merlin asks, skeptical.

 “We’ll… improvise along the way. Will you help me?” Arthur sounds sincere, and that’s what scares Merlin. Pendragon or not, he doesn’t look very trustworthy and not halfway sane, even. He shouldn’t get mixed up in shady things like this. He doesn’t know if he has a mother (and that’s a depressing thought) but if he had, he doesn’t think she’d approve. Who knows what the heir of Pendragon is planning to do with his powers. What if he is unknowingly used for making dangerous weapons?

 Merlin is about to say _no_ when he notices something. Searching for a way out, his gaze has dropped to the ground and it now lands on Arthur’s shoes. They’re leather boots.

 Suddenly he has this flash of – something, it might be the dream – and before he knows he’s nodding to a delighted face of the prince. No, not the prince. He doesn’t know why he keeps thinking that. All he knows is that he’s agreeing without knowing what it is he’s agreeing to, but it doesn’t really feel like a big deal. Like maybe, this could be an adventure. Or a tragedy, but it will be a story to remember and maybe it is also destiny.


End file.
